A Hot Cup of Tea
by Amles80
Summary: John is sick, and Sherlock brings him tea. Does Sherlock know how much it means to him? Does it bother him that the two of them are so different? *Oneshot. Friendship, JohnLock, UST.*


John tries to lift his heavy head from the pillow when Sherlock enters the room.

"Hey… You probably think I should get out of bed…"

Sherlock frowns and says:

"Don't move. I'm not the doctor here, but I can see that you are still sick. I… I'll make you a cup of tea."

With that, he swiftly turns around and leaves the room.

Another cup of tea. John sighs. How many has he had since the morning? At least he isn't sick enough to need help to get to the bathroom.

And yet he has to admit that somewhere deep down, he kind of likes it.

He doesn't like being sick, no, not at all, but the attention he gets from his flatmate is… surprisingly nice. Pleasant, even. It makes it almost worth it.

John isn't that sick, not really. Nothing that needs attention from a fellow doctor, but enough for him not to object to Sherlock telling him to stay in bed. It had started two days ago with a slight buzz and heaviness in his head, a couple of sneezes and a tickling sensation in his throat. John had seen quite a lot of sickness in his days, but _he_ rarely got sick, so that's why he tried his best to ignore it.

But the next morning, he had to admit that he had a cold; he sneezed so much and so loudly that he could have woken up the entire neighbourhood. Now, his head is throbbing and his throat protests even to swallowing tea.

He suspects that to Sherlock, it makes already bad days worse. Sherlock has no case and Sherlock is bored. Sherlock was climbing the walls, or shooting them, two days ago. But not even Sherlock would make that kind of noise when his friend is in bed with a headache.

Sherlock returns with a new cup and puts it on the bedside table; it's blue and heavy, steaming and hot. John's nose is too stuffed and runny to smell it but he can see that it is not black.

"Thanks", he says. "What is it?"

Sherlock replies that it is jasmine and John nods. He likes it better than the camomile that he's gotten so far today.

"I thought you hated to cook", John comments.

"Don't be absurd", Sherlock retorts with a snort. "It's true. But it does not mean that I don't know how to boil water for a cup of tea."

John nods and is about to agree, when he is overpowered by a coughing attack. It shakes his whole body violently. Sherlock watches in silence with, he notices, only a hint of dislike on his face.

"Can I get you anything?" Sherlock asks, and when John asks for some fruit – a banana, or grapes – he leaves again with a quiet nod.

John gets the strange idea that Sherlock almost enjoys playing nurse. As if it gives him something to do? Not that Sherlock normally enjoys such mundane tasks but perhaps he enjoys the opportunity to be nice and do something for his friend? Giving a sick person a few cups of tea is, admittedly, nothing but common decency but this _is_ Sherlock and it isn't in his nature to be 'nice' or 'polite'.

So maybe he's trying to say something? With the word 'friendship' comes a whole set of expectations, theoretically, and how is one to handle all of that when it's not normally part of your life?

The idea of having a 'friend' is still new to Sherlock, John knows. Their friendship isn't that new – hadn't it been in progress, in fact, already before their first case was solved? – but he supposes that Sherlock hadn't been thinking about it like that, calling it by its name, before. He suspects that one reason for this is that being friendless makes some things easier for a certain type of people. Sherlock can 'do his thing' without worrying what other people think about him because people don't really matter to him, and thus he doesn't matter to other people. That is wrong, though. He matters to Molly and even to Lestrade, and to Mrs. Hudson, and even to other people simply because he is in their lives. But he doesn't see it quite like this. Not until recently had this brilliant, sharp mind of his begun to see that such a thing as _friendship_ is possible.

Now that he knows what they are, now that it's actually out in the open, said in words, John sees that Sherlock doesn't know what to do with it. The change is subtle, but it's there. Sherlock isn't the only one with observation skills; John can see that Sherlock looks at him sometimes as if he's mysterious. Is he thinking something like: _Wow, my first friend; how is it even possible?_

What Sherlock actually is thinking is not possible to know for sure, John admits in his sickbed, but if that's what he's thinking, the follow-up thought might be: _But I don't have 'friends'. Is it possible that there's something more to it?_

Or not. No, Sherlock wouldn't think like that. It's only because John has a fever and can't seem to focus on anything that he gets delusional. Because it is delusional to think that Sherlock would ever consider something more than friendship. That's a big deal already, and John doubts that Sherlock has it in him to take it further than that. People always assume they're a couple, or at least that Sherlock is gay, but why? As if everybody has to be this or that; that Sherlock Holmes might be an odd man but he'd be at least somewhat 'normal' if he was gay, or bi, or straight, because everybody is one or the other. According to most people. John, who has been observing the other man for a long time, believes that Sherlock is asexual. And John knows that this isn't that strange, and it probably won't change. He doesn't expect it to.

John's ideas of his own sexuality might have changed a bit lately… but it's not the same thing. There has to be something there to change to begin with, if there's going to be a change at all.

John has too much time to think now. What does it matter if he's a little bit bi, and Sherlock is not? It's not about sexual attraction first and foremost. It runs deeper, it is emotional, it is… It is what, exactly? Friendship! And more? What does it consist of, this 'more' that John normally is afraid to think about?

"Love", he mutters out in his bedroom, but what _is_ that really?

Normally, John would know that this is a question for poets and philosophers, not for doctors and soldiers, but the fever makes him – makes him _want_ to be – irrational. 'Fever' can also be used metaphorically, and he thinks that he understands why. Sherlock wouldn't like it, but for the moment, he's somewhere else looking for fruit – what's taking him so long? – and John can think about whatever he wants.

He thinks now that he simply cannot help it. If he wants more, then it's just because it is in his nature to have feelings that occasionally cross the rather diffuse and sometimes thin line between friendship and love. What would Sherlock say if they were to discuss it? He would probably say with an irritated frown that they don't need it, 'love', because what they have is good enough and why ruin it with something as utterly ridiculous as romance? And heaven forbid he'd ever _act like a boyfriend_! John can very well imagine Sherlock's mockery if they were to talk about it.

But the thing is, they have never said a word about it. That, however, doesn't mean that Sherlock doesn't _know_.

John flushes crimson in his bed when he remembers the idiotic incident recently. It was his fault, entirely his own fault for acting like a fool.

It was just another evening at home. They were watching a movie together, and for once, Sherlock wasn't finding too many faults with what they saw. There were not that many factual errors and not that many plotholes, and the characters… well, Sherlock kept his mouth shut and John enjoyed the comfortable silence.

And then he sort of stretched, almost without thinking about it, and put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. Not even that; his arm was more on the backrest than on the other man, like tentatively touching but wanting to get even closer… He was almost not touching him at all, but even so, Sherlock tensed up immediately and shot John a surprised or, indeed, shocked glance.

_Why_ did he do it? John removed his arm and cursed himself silently for acting out instinct, for reaching out with his need to touch… He wasn't even trying to cuddle, he realized, he just craved _some_ physical contact, if ever so briefly… His arm burned.

"I don't like to be touched", Sherlock muttered without looking at him.

"I, uh… sorry", John mumbled sheepishly, "I didn't mean to…"

He got up from the couch as if his body ached and needed to be stretched for a little while. As if that was all the gesture was about, a need to move. He did it, even though he realized Sherlock didn't buy it. But his friend didn't say a word.

Since then, things have changed. They both pretend that it isn't so, but Sherlock looks at him sometimes with a hint of vigilance in his eyes – yes, John would even say fear, if it hadn't sounded so exaggerated. He's not sure what to call it, but sometimes he gets the feeling that Sherlock wonders if John is going to throw himself over him…

As if he would! Yes, he does want some… physical intimacy, but John would never want anybody to do something they don't enjoy; he would never force himself on somebody who doesn't want him. And surely Sherlock must now that? It doesn't make sense, because John knows that his friend has been propositioned before with a lot less discretion than a straying arm. Usually, Sherlock doesn't care about men's or women's advances; he dismisses them with indifference, if he even notices them at all.

But there is nothing John can do, now. It doesn't matter if he tries to hide it by saying 'but I'm not gay' or 'I don't want to make you uncomfortable' because Sherlock has seen what's in him, even if he can't understand it, or at least not relate to it.

And now, Sherlock plays nurse. As if by showing just how far he can go for a friend – his only friend – he's saying: 'Up to this, but no further!', as if bringing a hot cup of tea is as close to an affectionate gesture he can come.

Thinking about how different they are kind of hurts…

Sherlock comes back into John's bedroom – like before, without knocking – carrying a blanket, and a banana. There is no 'whatever you do, don't touch me' look on his face now. He looks down on John almost… gently.

For one hot, crazy moment, John thinks that Sherlock is going to put the blanket over him and tuck him in.

That's not what Sherlock does.

"Here", he says and tosses the blanket to John, "catch!"

John manages to catch one corner of it but the rest is on the floor. He pulls it up and arranges it over his body. Sherlock throws him the banana.

"This isn't a game, you know", John says. He isn't even sure why he says it. Sometimes he thinks Sherlock is like a big child. A very vivid image of the man dressed in nothing but a sheet flashes through his brain.

"I know", Sherlock says, a little too seriously. He pauses before he adds, "I need to go out. Will you be alright in here?"

"Sure", John says as lightly and cheerfully as he can. "Actually, I feel better."

Sherlock nods and turns away, and John can't help it – he is sad to see him leave. John clears his throat – or tries to – and calls after him, hurriedly:

"Have fun! You'll make me another cup of tea when you come back, right?"

"Yes!" Sherlock shouts, and then there's the loud bang of the front door.

Another cup of tea. He's already looking forward to Sherlock bringing it to him. Bringing a cup of tea, that sure isn't the textbook definition of an act of love, but if that's all he can get, John is going to take it. Does Sherlock understand it?

As long as Sherlock looks at him kindly like that, John can try to pretend that the tea cup represents something else; the tender care of a loving boyfriend… Or he can at least pretend that Sherlock knows what it means to him, and that he's okay with it…

As long as John is still sick. He is close to wishing he was even sicker when he realizes that _that's_ definitely a sick idea.

But what he said to Sherlock was true. He is feeling better – physically, at least. He reaches for the blue cup and drinks its content slowly, and something in his heart is aching.


End file.
